Four Times Angela Montenegro Said Yes
by StopTheWorldImGettingDizzy
Summary: ...to Jack Hodgins, and One Time She Said No. HODGELA. Fluffcake with a dash of angst.


A/N: This fic was written for the Hodgela ficathon on the angelahodgins livejournal community, angelahodgins dot livejournal dot com. My prompt was the song "I'll Be" by Edwin McCain. This fic does not have any relation to the events of season 2.

Feedback is appreciated and adored!

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Four Times Angela Montenegro Said Yes to Jack Hodgins, and One Time She Said No

**I**

Jack Hodgins was haunted by a pair of eyes. A pair of beautiful, stunning eyes. Brown: like milk chocolate or good, wet mud. The smears of color in the coat of a Springer spaniel. The polished cello he'd been forced to play in the fourth grade orchestra.

Zach was in the room and Jack was in the mood to talk. "Have you ever noticed Angela's eyes?"

Zach looked up from the bone fragments he was attempting to piece together. "No."

"They're brown," Jack told him. "Like mud." It seemed safer to use that analogy than, say, the milk chocolate one. Just for the sake of deniability.

"I have brown eyes," Zach informed him. "They're one of my best features, as confirmed by Mallory Williams, my first sexual conquest."

Jack winced. "Do me a favor, Zach, don't use the words 'sexual conquest' in front of me ever again."

- - - - - - -

"Angela!" Jack jogs down the hallway, stumbling over himself as he nearly drops the bundle of folders barely contained in his arms. She turns as he reaches her, and his eyes automatically snap to hers, adding his grandfather's dark mahogany desk to the list.

"Yes?" The edges of her mouth are twitching, and he sees her gaze flick upward from a brown folder (it matches her eyes) that is a mere few inches from liberation.

She blinks gracefully, almost in slow motion, and Jack forgets what he was going to say. He curls his mouth into a confidant smile. "I wanted to tell you how particularly beautiful you look today." Beautiful? He should have picked a different adjective. Something pompous and ridiculous, like fetching or winsome.

"Jack Hodgins, you sweet-talker, you," she says, laughing a little. She lowers her voice a notch, and she's flirting now. "Between that and those forearms of yours, you're quite a catch."

He glances down at his arms and sees that his sleeves have been pushed up to his elbows by his shifting attempts to keep the folders in check. He looks back up and grins a little; he's back in safe territory now. "Baby, I've got more than those hidden under this shirt."

She smirks. "I know."

For the first time, a look of puzzlement crosses his face.

"I happen to remember a certain entomologist exposing himself to a dangerous toxin last Christmas…."

Oh yes. Now he remembers. What a perfect way to have his abdominals revealed for the first time to this pair of eyes.

He clears his throat. "Any interest in taking another look?"

Angela raises her eyebrows slightly. "Just what are you suggesting?"

"Nothing at all." He leans in conspiratorially. "I was bluffing."

She rolls her eyes and starts to turn away from him. He impulsively reaches out a hand to stop her, remembering too late why this is a bad idea. She laughs at him openly as papers submerge his feet and he stoops to retrieve them. "Was there something else?"

He closes his eyes briefly. "Nothing at all," he mutters again from the floor. With a final teasing smile, she turns again and begins to walk away. "Unless-" he calls, and she stops, shooting him a questioning glance over her left shoulder. "-you wanted to meet me for dinner… tonight."

Neither of them moves for a moment. Slowly she walks back over to him, crouches down so their faces are level, and begins to scoop up papers, her eyes never leaving his. "I don't know. Why don't you convince me?" she asks softly.

He pauses for a split second before responding with the only thing that comes to mind. "I can't stop thinking about your eyes."

She looks taken aback and breaks their gaze instinctively. "Angela?" he inquires, an unbidden note of nervousness infiltrating his voice.

She looks back up, and there is a pleased smile in her eyes that makes him feel warm right down to his toes. "That's pretty good," she says, and the warmth increases.

"So…" Where this woman (this pair of eyes) is concerned, he needs clear, direct affirmation.

Her eyes crinkle with amusement as she stands upright. "Yes." She turns on her heel and walks away, and as Jack collects the last of the papers with his eyes still on her, he likes to think the slight springy briskness to her pace is due to him.

**II**

He walks her to her door, and somehow they end up in an embrace.

He snakes his arms under hers, reaching his hands upwards to cup her bare shoulder blades and push her more firmly against his torso. He can feel the soft plumpness of her breasts against his chest, and he strokes his hands up and down the skin of her back, making her shiver. She rests her chin on his shoulder, sighing contentedly. "Jack."

Reluctantly he pulls his body away from hers and leans back to meet her eyes, keeping his warm palms splayed across her back. "Yes, Angela?"

"I want you to know I'm not afraid."

"What?"

"I'm not afraid. I'm not running away. I know this is a little strange, and I know you're nervous."

He forces a slight laugh. "I am _not_-"

"We're both nervous. But you don't have to be because after tonight… I don't think I am anymore."

He looks at her, at a loss for what to say. "Angela…. You look amazing."

She smiles, an almost-shyness gracing her features. "Thank you." Her dress is red. It's definitely her color and it has a smoothly plunging neckline. It streams down around her calves in folds of fabric that were made to have fun in.

"I want to kiss you. Would that…?"

A flushed grin spreads across her face and she feels like she's sixteen. "Yes."

So he kisses her, and she squeezes him, tightening her muscles in a combination of restraint and release.

His right hand creeps down her back, and the tips of his fingers toy with the edge of material at her lower back before sliding underneath an inch or two. Her skin prickles; although the open back ends well before any questionable territory, the contact feels forbidden.

He pulls his lips back a millimeter to breathe, and she says his name, her moving lips brushing his and her voice a few degrees huskier than she meant it to be.

This is a good sign.

**III**

Between their first date and tonight (a week later- they've been busy), they've Accidentally Made Contact an average of four times per day, they've exchanged Sexually Charged Glances approximately once for every hour they've spent in each other's company, they've traded Suggestive Comments at opportune moments, and they've made out in her office for a few stolen minutes. She tells herself she is Not Really Planning, but she knows she won't be surprised if they wind up in bed tonight, and she knows for a fact that there is still an unused condom in the bottom of her purse from a couple of guys ago.

- - - - - - -

He walks her to her door again, and this time there is very little hesitation before they're clasped in each other's arms, kissing fervently. He pushes her backward until her hip hits the doorknob and presses himself forward, craving her. Her entire body feels like it's on fire; with Jack's hands on her waist and his mouth covering hers, it's difficult to think coherently. He pulls back and stares at her, breathing erratically, a wild gleam in his eyes that she imagines is reflected in her own.

"Ange…" he starts, and she nods vigorously, cutting him off before he can even form the question.

"Yes."

She fumbles in her pocket for her keys and opens the door, dragging him by the wrist behind her.

After, when Jack has fallen asleep with an arm and a leg flung over her, she turns her head towards the window and sees that it's raining, and she smiles to herself because Jack is keeping her warm.

**IV**

She is so utterly thrown when the words leave his mouth that all she can do is blink her brown eyes at him in shock, and he takes this as a cue to explain himself.

"We have great conversation," he says, "and great sex."

She finds her words. "And that's enough reason for us to get _married_?" Her voice rises in pitch on this last word, sounding slightly hysterical.

He continues as though she hasn't spoken. "We've cried on each other. We've helped each other. We _know_ each other. I know you, Angela Montenegro. And you know me better than I thought anybody ever could. We belong together."

She closes her eyes and sways. He cups her face in his hands, steadying her. "Angela. Will you marry me?"

_Six months ago, and two months since they started dating. He asked her a question. It was:_

_Angela, do you love me? _

And there was no protection, no I'll-go-first, no safety net of assurance that he felt the same way, she had to know that he felt the same way, and she did know, and she knew how she felt, and he asked her, and she was going to tell him the truth.

She must be crazy. She must be completely-screwball-GeorgeW.Bush-crazy, because she opens her brown eyes and smiles at him, and she says, "Yes. Yes, Jack Hodgins, I will marry you."

**V**

Years; and there are more sour expressions now, and what's worse, more sour expressions hidden, flashed at retreating backs.

And there is no child, no children, and would it help if there were? Deep down he thinks probably not, but he can't help thinking about it every now and then.

Both of them are breaking.

And one night they break.

When they finish crying, he in the living room and she in the den, they remeet in the kitchen, entering through opposite doors almost in sync, a piece of meaningless symmetry that nonetheless reminds them what order feels like.

His eyes are hollow from trying to release the tears; hers are red from trying to stem them. Her legs shake as she stands before him, and his voice is hoarse and cracked when he asks her, "You want to leave me, Ange?"

And she collapses forward, half aiming for his body, half knowing that even if she misses he'll be there, if only out of muscle memory. Crashing into him, shuddering into his shoulder, the sobs come again, and apparently her tear glands have not run out of steam or water or patience because they are still pumping, and she chokes a little but manages to wail "NO!" and then they both lose their grip on their knees and they sink to the floor together, clutching, crying, he is crying, he couldn't cry by himself but he can cry with her, and they're emptying their grief together, sobbing out their frustration and heartache and love _love love._ And things are going to change now.

Or maybe, just go back to the way they were before, when she giggled and teased and he had a list of seventeen things that matched her eyes.


End file.
